


Finn: The Last Scene

by wheel_pen



Series: Finn [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Clones, Kid Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 13:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4878640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft brings some important documents to Baker Street, and John and Sherlock finally stop misunderstanding each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finn: The Last Scene

**Author's Note:**

> The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.  
> This story has not been Britpicked. Please let me know if I get anything horribly wrong.  
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate the chance to play in this universe.

“…and did you see me on the swing? I was _so high_!”

“Yeah, you _did_ get going high, didn’t you?” John agreed happily. “That was fun.” Finn nodded eagerly.

They had been to the park, successfully, which was always nice, coming home cheerful and laughing instead of angry and in tears with dirt smudges and bruises. Nicer if Sherlock had joined them, but he said he had an experiment to run, and John knew he was bored silly at the park unless he was actually playing with Finn. Plus he abhorred the ‘park parent culture.’

Finn was still bouncing along when they reached their block and John noticed a large black car parked illegally in front of their flat. The exact car could not be called familiar, but the way it sat there—arrogant, if a parked car could be so—was recognizable. John stopped on the sidewalk well away and pulled out his phone.

“What’s wrong?” Finn wanted to know, and John smiled at him and shook his head.

“ _Yes, Mycroft’s here_ ,” Sherlock said immediately upon answering the call.

“Everything okay?” John checked.

“ _Fine. Come up_.” He disconnected and John saw Finn staring at him very seriously.

“It’s fine,” John assured him, taking his hand and resuming their walk. “Uncle Mycroft’s come for a visit. You remember him, don’t you?”

Finn did remember. It was not a particularly pleasant memory. “Are you going to give me back to him?” he guessed horribly.

John stopped again, so he could kneel down on the sidewalk and look the boy in the eye. “No,” he said firmly, taking his hands. “No, that’s never going to happen. We’re never going to give you back, okay?” He felt he could speak with confidence on this subject, although he and Sherlock had never gotten around to actually discussing it. It went without saying. “Uncle Mycroft is just here to visit. I know you didn’t have a good experience with him at first, but he’s really not so bad.”

John’s phone rang, interrupting his pep talk. “ _John, why are you kneeling on the sidewalk?_ ” Sherlock wanted to know. “ _Is something wrong?_ ”

John looked down the block and saw Sherlock leaning out the front window, watching them. “Nothing’s wrong,” he insisted, standing back up. “Get back inside before you fall out!”

Finn looked where he was looking. “There’s Daddy!” he recognized in delight, waving. Sherlock waved back.

“We are coming,” John said into the phone and hung up, hoping that would drive him back inside. It did. “Daddy’s very impatient today,” he muttered.

They went inside and Finn started to drag his feet a bit. “I want to go see Mrs. Hudson,” he claimed.

John knew it was just an avoidance tactic. “You can see her later,” he said. “Come say hello to your uncle, then you can go to your room and take a nap.”

“I don’t want to take a _nap_ ,” Finn protested.

“Well, play in your room, then,” John amended. “Quietly. On the bed.” Where hopefully he would fall asleep for a while. Reluctantly Finn allowed himself to be pulled up the stairs, seeing no recourse.

John opened the door to their flat and indeed Mycroft was sitting in a chair near the fireplace, his three-piece suit and umbrella vaguely old-fashioned but somehow also significant—you imagined a cadre of men in a World War II bunker somewhere secretly deciding the fate of the world as they had been for decades.

Well, John imagined that, anyway.

Sherlock sat on the end of the couch nearest to Mycroft and appeared slightly ill at ease, but less so than normal when his brother visited, which seemed like a good sign to John. Sherlock knew Mycroft took these rare opportunities to scan the flat for anything he could deduce about his brother, which made him intensely self-conscious. John assumed he was on the assessment list as well, but it didn’t bother him like it did Sherlock—he didn’t care if Mycroft knew he hadn’t done laundry in over a week or had eaten take-out Chinese for breakfast. Sherlock just didn’t want Mycroft to know _anything_ he didn’t tell him directly.

“Mycroft,” John greeted, trying to set a good example. And not just for Finn.

“John.” The other man leaned over a bit, trying to see around him, and John realized Finn had stayed out in the hall. John gave the boy a pointed look and he peered around the doorway warily. “Hello, Finn,” Mycroft told him, trying to seem friendly. It was an ill fit.

John poked the boy. “Hello,” he responded automatically.

“Go tell your dad about our trip to the park,” John encouraged, and Sherlock turned to look at him.

“Did you get into a fight again?” he inquired.

“No,” Finn assured him. He trotted over to Sherlock but took the long way around the couch to avoid Mycroft.

“Well what’s to tell, then?” Sherlock asked. John rolled his eyes as he hung up their coats. “General mirth and energy release ensued?” Despite his tone Sherlock caught the boy in his arms with easy affection, something Mycroft’s sharp eyes did not miss.

“I swung on the swings—“

“As one does.”

“—and I went _so high_!” Finn reported excitedly. “Then I slid down the slide—“

“Hardly unusual.”

John leaned down and hissed in Sherlock’s ear, “Quit interrupting him.” Mycroft did not miss this, either.

“Please, continue your park narrative,” Sherlock requested of the boy.

“There were geese in the pond!” Finn went on. “We dropped some bread on the ground for them—“

“Tea, Mycroft?” John asked as Finn continued chattering. “I assume he didn’t offer you any.”

“You assume correctly,” Mycroft replied with a sardonic smile. “Thank you.” John went to put the kettle on.

“And have you completed your park narrative?” Sherlock asked after a moment, when Finn paused. “Are you taking questions now?”

“Alright.”

“I have three. One: what kind of bread did you feed the geese? Two: what color shoes were worn by the woman whose dog got loose? Three: how long did you swing before ceding your position to Daisy?” Sherlock posed intently.

Finn did not find this unusual. “That swirly kind with light and dark bits and the funny taste, pink, and…” Measuring the passage of time was not something he was adept at. “Well, I don’t know. But it was alright, I had a good swing, and she said ‘please’ this time. Also her name’s Lily, not Daisy.”

“Well, I knew it was some sort of flower,” Sherlock dismissed.

“I’m impressed you _know_ two types of flowers,” John teased, bringing in the tea.

“I know _three_. You prefer chrysanthemums,” Sherlock insisted.

“They _are_ nice.”

“I _also_ know you don’t like the rye bread any more than _I_ do,” Sherlock continued smugly, “and that that woman intentionally lets her dog loose to chat up men who help retrieve it. You should start wearing a wedding ring to the park.”

“Your fashion advice is always appreciated,” John deadpanned, “and we’re finishing that bread. Finn? Naptime?”

“A moment,” Mycroft interrupted, looking pointedly at Finn. “I brought a gift.” He tapped a dark shopping bag beside his chair with the umbrella.

“Well that’s very nice,” John replied automatically, trying to conceal his surprise. “Tell him thank you, Finn.”

“Wait to see what it is first,” Sherlock advised, and John punched his shoulder while the boy’s back was turned.

Finn decided to follow Sherlock’s suggestion and dug into the bag hesitantly, first pulling out wads of tissue paper that he crumpled noisily. Mycroft seemed amused by this so John didn’t prompt him. Then he reached further into the bag and made a noise of surprise, pulling out… something. It was a large yellow roundish pointy thing with long, spindly arms and legs.

“What the h—l is _that_?” Sherlock demanded rudely.

“Oi,” John chided, though honestly he was thinking the same thing.

Finn, however, stared at it for a long moment, then hugged it close. He seemed so enamored he didn’t even take his opportunity to extract money from Sherlock for swearing. “It’s like Eggie,” he said finally.

“Well, the nearest thing I could find,” Mycroft demurred.

John grinned suddenly. “That’s very sweet of you, Mycroft.” Talk about words you never thought you’d say together. “Isn’t it?” he nudged Sherlock.

“I reserve judgment,” the other man replied stubbornly. “Let’s see it first.”

Finn brought the toy over to him. “Look, this foot has laces, and the other one has Velcro,” he pointed out, seeing this as a positive.

“Oh, so you can practice,” John realized, now seeing that the egg also featured a jacket with a zipper, snaps, and buttons. “That’s good.”

“It has mismatched shoes, and who needs to practice with Velcro?” Sherlock protested. “That’s the _point_ of Velcro, that’s why old people have it on their shoes.”

“Sounds like Daddy needs a nap as well,” John observed, and Finn giggled knowingly.

Sherlock apparently decided that when your five-year-old was laughing at you, you were clearly in the wrong, even if you didn’t understand why. “Mmm, lovely,” he reversed, handing the toy back. “A very educational anthropomorphized breakfast food.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Mycroft responded, smirk barely restrained.

John caught Finn’s eye and discreetly nodded back at the giver of the gift, and Finn turned to him with determination. “Thank you, Uncle Mycroft,” he said, and impulsively hugged him. Then it was Sherlock’s turn to smirk at his brother’s alarmed expression.

“Lowly Worm always says ‘you’re welcome,’” Sherlock prompted, sticky sweet.

“You’re welcome,” Mycroft parroted quickly, slightly ruffled. Finn didn’t seem to mind, though, and trotted dutifully upstairs.

John saw him off, then sat down on the couch next to Sherlock with his tea. “So, did I miss the purpose of your visit?” he asked Mycroft conversationally. Because he really didn’t think it was just to deliver a toy to Finn, appreciated though that gesture was.

“Not at all,” Mycroft assured him. “In fact I was asked to wait until you returned.”

“Oh.” Sherlock hadn’t summoned him—and Finn—back from the park early; which meant he’d endured his brother in the flat until they came home on their own time. That was sweet, John decided warmly. The Holmes brothers were being quite surprising today. He set his teacup down definitively, then took away Sherlock’s, which was empty and currently making an irritating noise in his hands. Then he faced Mycroft expectantly.

The other man reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small booklet with a larger piece of paper folded into it. He handed them straight to John, knowing better than to trust Sherlock’s organizational skills. They were, upon examination, a passport and a birth certificate.

For Finnegan Hamish Holmes.

John’s middle name had come from his grandfather; he’d been largely indifferent to it himself but the significance of its use as Finn’s middle name was not lost on him. He assumed Sherlock had made that decision at some point and failed to inform him—it seemed too personal to be Mycroft’s doing.

“Something wrong?” Mycroft asked as John stared at the documents, and he realized suddenly he wanted to have this conversation with Sherlock in private. Quickly he scanned the rest of the paper.

“Um… didn’t realize you could leave the mother’s name blank,” he finally said, which _was_ rather curious.

Mycroft found this topic safely dull. “Yes. You can actually leave _both_ parents’ names blank,” he commented idly. “To protect the identities of trysting lords and ladies married to other people, I imagine.”

“Right.” John tucked the documents away for the moment as Mycroft unveiled a ledger with some papers attached to it.

“And if you’ll both sign here and here,” he pointed out professionally, “you’ll officially be Finn’s legal guardians.”

“Oh,” John remarked with some surprise. Sherlock took the papers silently and scrawled his signature across them, then passed them on to John without a glance. John found himself gazing at the legalese numbly.

“That way there won’t be any trouble with hospitals, schools, etc.,” Mycroft went on. “I’ll have it filed properly… I assume this is what you want?”

John looked up suddenly to see that his hesitation had not gone unnoticed. If Mycroft thought he and Sherlock had discussed these things beforehand, or that John at least had even thought about them—though really, he should have—he was now suspecting he might be wrong. Sherlock’s vacant stare off to the side did not give him confidence.

But John did consider himself to be Finn’s parent. He very much wanted to be. And Sherlock’s messy signature seemed to indicate he wanted it, too. Whatever else he wanted, or not, from John.

“Yeah, of course,” John replied quickly, signing where indicated. When he looked over at Sherlock again he was startled to see the other man facing him now, a little quirk of a smile on his face. John smiled back, feeling much more relaxed than he had since spotting Mycroft’s car outside.

Mycroft collected the documents carefully. “Of course things would be much easier if you obtained a civil partnership,” he commented with slight exasperation.

John’s eyes snapped back to him and he was about to protest, then realized he didn’t really _dislike_ that idea. If Mycroft had been at all teasing or jovial John might have objected anyway; but he spoke with utter certainty.

“Um, hmm,” was all John could mutter.

“You don’t have to make a big _occasion_ out of it,” Mycroft went on, a bit snidely now. “But do let Mummy know, she’d be very pleased.”

Sherlock cleared his throat and sat up. “More tea, John?” he requested awkwardly.

“Right. More tea,” John agreed rapidly, pouring some and spilling a bit.

Mycroft rolled his eyes as if they were being rather immature, then stood. John felt like he should stand as well but Sherlock didn’t, so he resisted. “Well. Good-bye.”

“Thanks, Mycroft,” John told him suddenly. “You should stop by again, and see Finn.”

The other man paused by the door. “You’re welcome. Perhaps I will.” Then he left.

They heard the front door slam shut and the muffled purr of Mycroft’s car pulling away. For a long moment everything was silent in the flat, as though Mycroft had sucked all the air out when he left. Finally John caught Sherlock darting a look at him and had to speak. “Finnegan Hamish Holmes?” he repeated questioningly.

Sherlock squirmed, subtly, disguising it as shifting more towards John. “Yes, well, he needed a middle name,” he defended.

“So you gave him mine.” There was no way this was not momentous and a grin threatened to escape from John.

“Well, it’s not yours _exclusively_ ,” Sherlock tried to tell him.

“So it’s just a coincidence?”

“I didn’t say that,” he countered quickly.

There was another silence, slightly easier, then John plunged ahead again. “So… are we getting married?” He was trying to go for a delicate balance of dry humor and sincerity.

“It’s a civil partnership,” Sherlock corrected, apparently okay with abrupt and guarded.

“Which is functionally marriage,” John pointed out. “Legal responsibilities, tax benefits—“

“Are we?” Sherlock interrupted, and John looked up to see bright blue eyes focusing intensely on him.

“Is that a proposal?” he asked with a hint of flirtation, inwardly thrilling at the conversation.

Though with Sherlock you couldn’t make too many assumptions.

“It’s a suggestion of a plan,” Sherlock clarified, turning even more towards John on the couch. John mimicked the posture, trying to remain straight-faced and casual. “We should consider it.”

“Uh-huh,” John acknowledged. “And do you think we should try _dating_ first before we get married, or--?”

Sherlock waved this notion off. “Dating is extremely dull.”

“Oh, you’ve tried it, then?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” John opined, as though they were talking about a book or television show. “Cross that off the list, shall we?”

Sherlock put his arm up on the back of the couch, where John’s already rested. “Dating is unnecessary in our case,” he insisted scientifically. “We’re already well aware of each other’s strengths and weaknesses, and have thoroughly tested our compatibility.”

John supposed he had a point there. His hand crept along the back of the couch, lightly brushing Sherlock’s as if by accident. Neither of them acknowledged it. “What about kissing, then?” he asked. “Have you given some thought to that?”

“Also dull.”

“Really.”

“Though,” Sherlock hesitated, and John’s gaze was riveted to his face, “I imagine that depends somewhat more on the individuals involved.”

John recognized the opening, contorted though it was, and a corner of his mouth quirked up in a grin. “So, do you _imagine_ kissing me would _not_ be dull?” he asked teasingly.

And then Sherlock— _imagined_. John could see it in his face, in his eyes, when he turned all the considerable powers of his mind to imagining kissing John. And it was overwhelming. Not to mention incredibly hot.

“Holy s—t. Come here,” John demanded, yanking him close.

The first kiss was not romantic or even especially well-coordinated—hands gripping fabric and sliding into hair, noses and lips bumping and realigning, tongues trying to taste while avoiding teeth, mouths trying to devour each other whole to make up for lost time. They ended up tangled around each other on the couch, trying to be closer than humanly possible, so familiar with each other’s presence and yet thrilled by the newness of this contact.

John broke away first, panting as Sherlock continued to nuzzle his neck. “Breathing,” he suggested faintly.

“Overrated,” Sherlock claimed, equally out of breath.

John rested his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder, mind and body still reeling at the line that had been crossed, the one that had seemed forbidden for so long and was now deliciously _possible_. “F—k,” he sighed, sliding his arms around Sherlock’s waist.

“Let’s,” he agreed playfully. _Eagerly_.

“G-d,” John groaned.

“Thank you.”

John rolled his eyes. “Git.”

“Babbling,” Sherlock admonished, swooping in to kiss him again. This time was slower, more mindful, tastes and textures, groans and hisses catalogued for future reference, liberties taken because they were now, apparently, _allowed_.

But this was Sherlock, and for him to stop thinking entirely and focus only on the moment was nearly impossible. They were lying on the couch now, inches apart just gazing at each other in a new light, and John saw the moment when Sherlock started to analyze.

“Oh, here we go,” he said preemptively. He liked to see his mind work, though.

“During our association you’ve always been rather vociferously heterosexual,” Sherlock pointed out.

“Yes,” John agreed easily, starting to untuck Sherlock’s shirt.

He admirably tried to avoid being distracted by this. “But not anymore.”

“No,” John assured him, thinking that should be obvious.

This did not compute well enough for Sherlock. “With a man, have you ever—“

“No,” John replied firmly. “Not even close.” The admission was much less awkward than he’d imagined it would be.

“Until now?”

“Until _you_ ,” John specified. “And you can go ahead and be smug about that, you arrogant b-----d,” he added with a grin, leaning across the cushion to kiss Sherlock’s answering grin. It was still there, infuriatingly self-satisfied, when he pulled back. “Oh, you _have_ got dimples,” he realized suddenly. “I was wondering where Finn got them from.”

“Where _else_ would he get them from?” Sherlock asked logically.

“What about you, then?” John questioned, having always been curious on this point. It seemed his business now. Which was amazing.

“Um, probably from my mother. I don’t recall—“ He saw John’s look. “Oh, we’re going back to the previous topic.”

“Yes,” John agreed dryly. “Dating and kissing were dull, which I presume means you actually tried them at some point.”

“Well, I experimented with both genders, to see what the fuss was all about,” Sherlock began, and John’s eyes widened slightly. He decided to tuck _that_ imagery away for further study.

He cleared his throat. “And, um, no fuss at all?” he surmised.

“Unsatisfying, uninspiring, unnecessary,” Sherlock summarized.

“Until now?” John hoped.

“Until _you_ ,” Sherlock revealed. “You may be smug about that,” he allowed equitably.

“Overawed, is more like,” John admitted, drawing him back in. He knew how people looked at Sherlock. And now he knew there was only one person he was looking back at. The mutual confessions seemed to spur them on and John soon found that his jumper was about to be tugged over his head.

“Hang on, hang on,” he interrupted and Sherlock withdrew immediately as though burned, eyes guarded. John grabbed him before he could leave the couch entirely, realizing with a cold snap that Sherlock was just waiting for rejection. “Come back here. Come on.” He nuzzled the long, pale column of his throat, feeling the pulse flutter in his veins, until his muscles relaxed somewhat. “I just meant that we should _relocate_ before our son wakes up and comes down here.” Somehow mentioning your children shouldn’t be sexy, and yet it was, the casual reminder of the intimate responsibility they already freely shared.

“Oh. Right.” Long pause. “Maybe we should shut the door, too.”

“That’s a good plan,” John agreed. They didn’t need Mrs. Hudson walking in either.

“I’ll get the door,” Sherlock offered generously.

“No, no,” John protested, forcing himself to sit up. “You’re too easily distracted. _I’ll_ get the door. _You_ go to the bedroom.”


End file.
